


Secret

by sbrant



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Come Eating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Office Sex, Professor Bill Denbrough, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, i listened to 505 like a billion times while writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sbrant/pseuds/sbrant
Summary: Bill is a college professor, Y/N is his student, and things get complicated when he offers to tutor her after class.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Reader
Kudos: 8





	Secret

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the infrequent posting, I've been busy with work lately, so my free time to write isn't as much as it used to be. But you can always count on me having something in my drafts, even if it takes a while to write like this did. I hope you enjoy it :)

Room 505 doesn't have a lock on its door.

Her eyes look up at his with a flicker of mischief. The warmth of his body against hers almost makes her shiver, and she entertains the idea of wrapping her legs around his hips to grind against him. There's a certain hesitancy in his eyes as they dart over her features, as if he's trying to decipher her expression for any sign of not wanting this.

Bill's nose bumps hers when he whispers, "We s-shouldn't be doing this..."

She wraps her legs around him just like she imagined doing and delights in the strangled little noise that escapes him when they make contact, a noise he tries and fails to hide. He leans into her, only slightly, and holds her hips in place as he moves against her.

Their faces are so close, too close.

"No"—she whispers back, leaning up to meet him—"we shouldn't."

His mouth tastes of coffee. It's the only thing she can think of when they first kiss, but the second is this: kissing him feels like coming home. She tugs his shirt up his back as they kiss, only pulling away when he moves to throw it over his head and off to the side, where it lands on one of the chairs.

With her long-sleeve shirt tossed away, he wastes no time in removing her bra too, leaning down and gently sucking one of her nipples into his mouth. Y/N sighs at the feeling, and her back arches into every caress of his tongue. One of her hands grips the edge of the desk hard enough to turn the tips of her fingers white while the other slides up the length of his back. His skin is soft beneath her palm, as are the locks of hair that slip between her fingers as she pulls them taut.

He's more responsive to her than she ever imagined. For some reason, she thought he'd be shyer than this whenever she daydreamed while staring at him in class or fantasized about him before falling asleep each night. In her mind, he could be whatever she wished him to, whatever she needed, and, somehow, reality is so much better.

He teases the edge of her panties for a torturously long moment before dipping underneath the waistband. Between the constant attention of his mouth sucking hickeys on her chest and the hand now slipping into her underwear, he doesn't let her catch her breath. He keeps her legs spread with a knee propped into one of her thighs, and groans into her chest at how wet she is, the feeling of her arousal slicking his fingers enough to make his cock twitch in his pants.

When his attention raises to fleetingly spread some of that wetness over her clit, she melts right there in his arms. Every touch he gives is perfectly placed, and she never wants him to stop. Part of the allure, she thinks, is how risky they're being. It's only a matter of time before someone knocks on the door.

She is clinging to him as he slides a finger into her.

Her hands are gripping his shoulders so tightly that they may leave bruises behind in the shape of her hands, yet he can't find it in himself to care. All he can focus on is making her feel good, so everything else fades into the background for good when he hears the sweet gasps and moans that fall from her. Their lips brush with any slight movement, and he can't help but lean forward to kiss her after a few moments of such teasing.

One of her hands absentmindedly slips down the front of his chest, distracting him from where he's curling another finger inside of her at a steady pace. Her palm is softer than his, less calloused, and it runs over every inch of him, memorizing every curve and muscle on its way down. It only stops once it reaches the waist of his jeans.

"Can I-"

She doesn't even have the chance to finish the question before he's kissing her desperately, nodding, and whispering back, "Please."

It's hard to concentrate whenever she touches him, but he tries not to lose the rhythm that has her whining and clinging onto him for dear life. She fumbles with this belt, frantically attempting to get it off, before it clatters to the floor with a loud noise neither of them bothers to worry about. Bill's free hand slips from where it was perched on her hip to help her undo his jeans, and she doesn't bother with pulling them down all the way. The sudden feeling of her hand wrapping around his length makes him kiss her harder, leaning into her closer and using the heel of his hand to put pressure on her clit.

They hadn't meant to end up in this situation. They secretly hoped for it and wanted it, but never intended for this interaction to lead to what's now happening.

Y/N was falling behind for a few weeks by the time he asked her to stay behind after class and offered some extra help. In all honesty, it did start as nothing more than a few innocent after-hours tutoring sessions. However, she can't deny the fact that part of her reason for accepting the offer was that she had a crush on him since the beginning of the year. She heard all kinds of things about his class being tough and intimidating, but having him look like that made it so much worse.

Whenever he called on her to participate and contribute to a discussion, whenever he made direct eye contact with her, she felt her stomach churn with a familiar fluttering sensation. There was no denying her feelings for him, that much was clear, but pretty much every other girl in that class shared the sentiment, so at least she wasn't on her own. But what she was on her own with was her tutoring sessions.

Bill doesn't tend to spend one on one time with his students for tutoring. It's not out of a lack of care or compassion, but because he's too busy and would never get anything done if he stopped to privately help every student in his class personally. Plenty of girls with crushes on him learned that the hard way. Instead of him offering to tutor them himself, they got referred to other teachers or students on campus when they asked...but that wasn't what happened with her.

 _Definitely not_ , he thinks as he looks down between them with his forehead pressed against hers to watch where they touch each other. And as much as he'd like to watch this continue on forever, he knows that if they take too long, other professors might eventually stop by to see him and walk in on them.

He feels like a fucking dumbass. His entire reputation as a college professor could be ruined by this, yet he refuses to stop. He doesn't _want_ to stop, even while understanding the potential consequences of their actions. It would be worse for her though. He could go somewhere else, but if anyone knew, this would follow her around for the rest of her time here. People would treat her like a stupid girl who slept with him to pass. It isn't true, but that's how they would see it. Not to mention the jealousy from other students who have crushes on him too.

But as long as no one knows...

Her soft noises come to a halt when he slips his hand out of her underwear and ignores her frustration to tug the fabric down her legs.

Fleetingly, he can think through the all-consuming desire to place her panties on his desk instead of letting them drop on the floor. In all honesty, he knows how often, or, perhaps, how infrequently, they clean these floors. She'll thank him for taking the time to do it later, even if all she wants is for him to hurry up and get back to her right now.

If he had more patience, maybe he'd take the time to rip her skirt off...but all he can stand in the torturous need to be inside of her is to hike it up her thighs until the tight material is bunched around her hips.

The skirt, of course, is what led to all of this.

There are other factors that contributed—like the instant attraction he felt as soon as he saw her that he instantly forced himself to ignore in order to be professional—but this damn skirt is what hammered the nail in his coffin. It isn't unusual for her to dress nicely, nor is it unusual for her to wear a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on days she didn't sleep, so he tried not to think anything of it when she came into their final tutoring session wearing this little black skirt.

She watches his every move as he sets her underwear down on his desk and pulls her skirt up, utterly mesmerized by him and the surreality of the situation they're in.

Part of it is his beauty, but it's also the nature of their relationship that makes her question if this is real or an incredibly vivid dream she has yet to wake from. He's her teacher, her superior in position and age—although he is quite young for a college professor. He's in his late twenties and still dons a certain youthful glow that often endears his students to him, so it isn't age that makes their relationship potentially inappropriate.

Y/N leans back with her palms flat on the tabletop in the moment he takes to pause and decides that now is the perfect time to mess with him, to throw him off a little. He's probably expecting her to be the blushing, nervous twenty-year-old she is in the presence of a slightly older, more sexually experienced person, but she doesn't want to prove him right. He is right, she is all of those things, but she wants to use that submissive nature to her advantage.

With a quick glance up and down between his eyes and lips, she slowly widens her legs for him. All this does is allow him a better glimpse beneath the skirt he's been itching to take off for an hour now, and he has to fight the sound that threatens to escape him. She's dripping wet and if he weren't hard already, he would be just by looking at her, let alone feeling her and experiencing what's to come.

He wonders if she ever fantasized about him how he has about her. Before their tutoring sessions, he kept a handle on his emotions. It was easier when she sat quietly in the back of the room, but having her sit less than two feet beside him once a week proved to be the death of him.

She once left her cardigan on the couch in his office and he couldn't concentrate for the entire week until their next tutoring session because of it. His eyes kept drifting over the top of his computer to where it sat, draped over the arm of the couch he imagined fucking her on countless times. He refused to touch it.

Today, though, he could tell that she was acting differently. Most days, she's more focused on her work than she is him and remains a respectable distance from him out of fear that any teacher or student passing his door would mistake their time together as anything other than innocent.

Today, she sat closer and kept looking at him—looking at him in a way only she's capable of. Maybe most people wouldn't think much of it, maybe it could've been nothing, but he couldn't breathe when she kept making subtle moves on him and attempting to start a little game between them. After a while, he couldn't help but play.

She leaned forward with her elbow propped against the desk, eyes fixed on the paper below her, "Mr. Denbrough-"

"You c-c-can call me Bill if you want."

The sound of his voice was a welcome pleasure, but it was what he said that made her head poke up to look at him. There was an intensity in his gaze that she'd never seen before, and she tracked the movement of his eyes where they trailed up and down her body. The angle she was leaning forward at gave him a perfect glimpse at her cleavage that he was trying his hardest to ignore until then. He didn't conceal anything when he looked at her. His attention stopped greedily at her breasts, watching every shallow breath she took and how they bounced ever so slightly when she shifted in her seat.

The next thing either of them knew, they were kissing. And it didn't take long for him to scoop her up in his arms to place her on the desk, hastily shoving books and papers off to make room for her.

Now, the energy in the room has tripled, and she doesn't let herself back down from how intimidating he is without realizing it. His jaw clenches tightly at her spread legs, so transfixed by her attempt to throw him off his rhythm. Y/N thinks she might need to snap him out of this.

Propping her left foot onto the arm of the chair he shoved aside, she lets her legs part a little more and tilts her head to the side as he looks at her like he's preparing to pounce.

Her voice is honey-sweet, so contradictory to the filthy words falling from her lips when she asks, "You wanna fuck me, Professor?"

His mouth runs dry, all of the air is pushed out of his lungs, and he blinks at her in shock. For that moment, she worries. She starts to fear that maybe he isn't into this as much as she is, that she may have taken this to a place he never wanted it to go reach. The tension between them spikes drastically the entire time. It's only a split-second, an instant, yet feels like an eternity, and then tension just goes up and up and up the longer it stretches on.

She was wrong to worry.

Bill is back between her legs quicker than she can blink, his hands already cupping her face as their teeth clash in a possessive, urgent kiss. They only leave her when he realizes, after grinding his hips against her for relief, that she never pulled his underwear down. His pants were disheveled and shoved halfway down, but she didn't get the chance to undress him further before he pulled away from her.

What she said plays on a loop in his head while he slips his underwear down his hips and tugs her to the edge of the desk by her thighs. Her body jolts with the sudden movement—he hears a breath hitch in her throat with surprise. He can't stop hearing her sweet voice in every corner of his mind.

It was the "professor" part that got under his skin. He already told her she can call him Bill if she wants, but she opted for something else instead, knowing exactly what it would do to him. And, holy shit, did it work.

Her legs are wrapped around his hips, keeping him locked in close to her at the feeling of his tip, slick with pre-come, brushing her clit. His mind feels fuzzy with the side effects of this heady desire, but he doesn't let anything distract him from her, especially not when she reaches between their bodies to guide him inside of her.

Y/N whimpers into the limited space between them and has to fight the urge to bury her face in his neck as he pushes into her. But she wouldn't be able to look away if she tried, not with the hand he snuck around the back of her neck forcing her to keep looking at him during it all. There's no chance to become comfortable through the dull ache of having to adjust to his size either. As soon as he feels his hips meet the soft skin of her thighs, he doesn't hesitate to pull away and sink into her again.

The restraint it takes not to become rough or speed up a little on his end is immeasurable, and she can tell by the way his hands grip the back of her neck and waist. She hopes he's holding tightly enough to leave bruises since it would prove to her that this is actually real when tomorrow comes.

One of her hands slips up the front of his chest until it reaches his neck, stopping at the spot where her fingertips find purchase in the soft, pliant skin just below his jaw. It'll be so easy to rile him up.

"It turns you on, doesn't it?" she asks, and his next thrust is unintentionally harsher. "You think about this every time you see me, and it's so wrong...but that's what makes it exciting, isn't it?"

Her hand squeezes on the sides of his neck with enough pressure to get his attention, but not enough to restrict his breathing when he doesn't respond. Without realizing it, he starts to let that restraint slip more and more with everything she does. He's starting to lose control, and when the pace he's setting starts to gently rock the desk she's sitting on, she knows she's getting to him.

All of those students crushing on him and doing everything they could to get his attention, yet he chooses her. What even makes her stand out to him? When did it occur to him that he found her attractive? Was it the day he met her? Or was it that one time, after a tutoring session, when she needed a ride back to her dorm? For her, that was the first time she realized that her feelings for him were stronger than previously thought.

It was a short drive, but every second of it was tense with the unspent energy between them. Once it was over, once the car came to a halt in front of her dorm building, neither of them wanted her to get out. For the two weeks that followed, Bill was different. He never made eye contact with her in class, nor did he pull her chair on the same side of the desk as him during their tutoring. There was a clear before and after.

Even though she knows the answer, she can help but ask a question to feed her curiosity.

"Do you fuck all of your students, Professor? Or"—she's cut off with her own moan as he starts getting rougher with her, using the hand on her waist as leverage. She has to pull herself together before continuing—"Or just me?"

His words are muffled by their mouths meeting between the chaos when he says, "J-J-Just you."

She knows he doesn't do this with anyone else simply because of how frustrated it makes the other girls in her class. If he slept with other students before her, they wouldn't be so frustrated about having no chance. He's not the type to mix his work and love life anyway. Not even the prettiest women or shortest skirts could get to him...Well, except _this_ pretty woman and _her_ shortest skirt.

One of his hands is clinging to where her cute little skirt is bunched around her hips, and she's sure she'll never be able to wear it again without remembering this. Maybe she'll wear it again to class in a month. It would be fun to see his reaction when he realizes what she's wearing and has to wait an hour before acting on the feelings it would stir up within him. She can already hear his voice asking her to stay for a few minutes after class to talk about an "upcoming assignment."

His face dips away to kiss her neck, and her head rolls back at the sensation of his teeth nipping at the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

She has no idea how many times he's gotten off to the thought of her, or how many times he's come with her name on the tip of his tongue. So, he tells her as much, and hearing him whisper in her ear raises goosebumps on her arms. Knowing that he fantasized about this too only heightens every sensation she feels—from his lips diligently sucking a bruise on her neck to the indescribable pleasure of him fucking her hard enough to make the pencil she left on his desk roll onto the floor.

To answer his confession, she offers up one of her own. It's difficult for her to concentrate enough to speak, but she tries. She needs him to know exactly how badly she wanted this.

"I do too," she whispers, and hooks her arms around his shoulders while stammering her response, "I-I think of you every time..."

Even if she's only lying to feed his ego, which she isn't, the thought of it nearly pushes him over the edge. Here's this hot, smart girl who should want nothing to do with him, yet here she is telling him he's what turns her on when she touches herself.

One of the hands bracing her hips settles flat against her chest and pushes her until she's lying on her back against the desk, legs still wrapped tightly around him. His touch slips down the length of her body again and appreciates every curve on its journey back down. Each harsh slap of his hips against hers makes her mouth fall open in a string of soft moans that set every nerve in his body on fire.

Her fingers curl around the edge of the desk for support as her back arches with the sensation of him repeatedly hitting that perfect spot inside her, never failing to turn her into a blushing mess. Strands of hair become tangled with her incessant writhing, but she doesn't care one bit, not as something that has been her wet dream for the past few months is finally brought to life.

She knew from the second he pulled her chair around to his side of the desk, the first time he did so in weeks, that today was going to be different. Of course, she never would've guessed this, but she knew that whatever it was between them would appear again just based on the way he looked at her. Everything about today felt tenser, and she felt like she couldn't breathe with how near he was. Whenever he took the pencil from her hand to write notes in the margins of her essay, their fingers brushed and they felt sparks flash at the small contact.

That was when he realized that touching her is a drug to him. The more time passed, the more subtle, yet unnecessary touches they shared, he realized that none of it would be enough. As exciting as those fleeting moments of contact were, he wanted more. He wanted _this_.

So, it's safe to say that he is utterly overwhelmed right now. All of his senses are flooded with her, and he wouldn't want it any other way. In fact, he'd get closer if he could. He wants nothing more than to stay this way forever. There's something about Y/N that makes him so needy, it borders on pathetic, and if she knew how desperate he is for her, she might pity him. Assuming this is likely a one time fling for her, the concept of her reading his mind and knowing not only the sexual thoughts, but also the romantic ones, makes him want to run and hide.

At first, it was exclusively sexual, but then she began to reveal pieces of her personality and passions to him as their tutoring sessions passed by and he was gone before he had the chance to realize. At first, he fantasized only about bending her over the arm of his couch. Now, he still fantasizes about that, but then imagines taking care of her afterward, placing soft kisses on her cheek and wrapping her up in his arms until she comes down from her high.

Perhaps if it were exclusively sexual, he wouldn't be this scared of the future. He knows she's not the type to kiss and tell, that's not what he's worried about. What he's worried about is this never happening again.

Bill leans forward, bringing her in close to him, and presses one of her legs down against her chest, wrapping his arm around the bend of her knee to keep it in place. And this shift in position instantly spikes the pleasure bubbling inside of them. He can tell exactly what it does to her because of how perfectly she clenches around him.

"Fuck," he whines, forehead pressed to hers, "You f-f-feel so good."

The words make her want to look away from the intense eye contact they're forced to make in the position they're in, but she can't. Instead, she stares back into his eyes and musters every ounce of confidence she has to match his energy. It's hard to catch enough breath to speak through all that they're doing, and the movement of her hips jerking forward to meet his becomes sloppy as she tries to form words. One of her arms wraps around the back of his neck to trap him with her.

"I want you to come on my tits," she says, breathless, and he thinks he might die. "Please."

Well, there goes any chance of him lasting past the next thirty seconds.

His brows furrow as he kisses her, still keeping one of her legs propped against her chest so he can pound into her as deeply and roughly as possible. She knows she'll be sore for days and so does he. He wants her to feel it for the rest of this week, especially during class. It'll be a room crowded with people, but only they'll know. Only Y/N will have the satisfaction of knowing, while the group of friends that always sit in front of her drone on about how devastatingly attractive he is before class, that all she needs to do to make their professor melt in her arms is wear a short skirt and bat her eyelashes at him.

Nevertheless, she wonders how it'll feel in the aftermath of this...How will class feel tomorrow with such a dirty secret lingering in the space between them? How will he stop himself from glancing at her every five seconds? How will she contain herself whenever he calls on her for her opinion on something? She knows that the second she walks in, paranoia will make it feel like everyone knows.

The insides of her thighs are slick with her arousal, and he can't believe that he's the reason for it, that he did this to her. Her body is responsive to his every touch, it arches and shakes whenever he brushes up against her clit. He feels her leg muscles start to twitch beneath where his arm is wrapped around it and thanks his lucky stars that she's as close as he is. It's obvious in the little things, like her leg twitching or that adorable way her face is scrunched, eyes closed, with the euphoric feeling that's so close, she can nearly feel it.

"Bill!" She cries out, head thrown back on the desk as her approaching orgasm intensifies and overwhelms her.

For the first time tonight, she doesn't address him as "Professor" or "Mr. Denbrough", and his heart skips a beat or two at the sound of his first name escaping from her parted lips. There's an intimacy to it that he hadn't expected. And he certainly hadn't expected to find it hotter than anything else she's said or done yet, but she has surprised him plenty tonight, enough so that he should expect it at this point.

All it takes to push her over the edge is to feel him hit that spot inside of her again just as his lower abdomen grinds down against her clit—that's all that needs to happen before she's coming undone below him with trembling gasps and spasms that he observes in not-so-silent appreciation. He whispers praises into her ear and never once relents his abuse of the sensitive spot that reduces her to incoherent moans every single time. It'll become overstimulating after a while, but, for now, it's an indescribable sensation.

The tips of her maroon-painted fingernails are digging into the unmarred, pale skin stretching across his back hard enough to draw blood. Pain, while unenjoyable by itself, has always been something he likes when mixed with pleasure. She doesn't even realize what she's doing, but it's everything he forgot he needed at the moment. Tight, warm, and so, so wet, she involuntarily squeezes around the thick presence of him inside of her, and he damn-near collapses on the spot.

Her orgasm has barely faded when Bill realizes he can't hold back any longer and slips out of her as swiftly as he can. The hand on her waist abandons its place to wrap around his cock, only pumping once, twice, three times before he's painting her bare chest with his release. She's still looking up at him, dazed and fuck-drunk, with the same look she's been giving him all afternoon while he groans at the sight of his come dripping down the side of her breast.

It isn't until he's finally spent and finished riding out his high that he stops, lets the leg propped over his shoulder return to where it was previously wrapped around his waist, and catches his breath. But before she has the chance to reach for the tissue box beside her head, he reaches forward with his ring and middle finger to swipe some of it off her chest.

His free hand gently strokes the side of her jaw.

"Open," he murmurs tiredly. A command, not a request.

And she does what he wants without a second of hesitation, humming a moan around his fingers as he slips them into her mouth.

Their stare never breaks when she sucks them clean. She makes a show of it, slides down the length of them, and swirls her tongue around his fingertips for the sake of planting a very specific image in his mind. He's bombarded with half-second flashes of a daydream about her kneeling under his desk with her hands wandering to the zipper of his pants, but forces himself to come back to reality when she pulls off of his fingers with a soft "pop".

Suddenly, the world beyond this small office in the secluded corner of the building returns to them.

Y/N's chest rises and plunges with a need for the air that seemed impossible to breathe in the midst of her orgasm, and her eyes track his movement through the motions of him pulling his pants, including the belt she threw to the floor, back up to his hips. It's another few moments of them putting their clothes back on and making themselves presentable again before either of them speaks, and it's only to acknowledge the issue with her skirt.

His eyes narrow at a stain she frantically scrubs at with the tissue she plucked from the desk.

"I'm sorry," he says and steps closer to take a look at the black denim with a painfully obvious stain from when he first missed her chest.

She gives up on wiping the stain away with the dry tissue, it's already been a minute or so and it looks like her panicking only made it more noticeable, not less. Thankfully, it's high up enough on her skirt for her to hide it under her shirt. It sucks that she won't be able to wear it again, especially considering the plans she had to put it on for class one day, but at least she can conceal it on the way home. The last thing she needs is to sign in at the desk of her dorm building and have the nice lady helping her see this kind of stain on her clothes.

 _My gosh, I'd never be able to show my face there ever again_ , a voice in the back of her mind cringes.

"It's fine, honestly, it's a really old skirt anyway."

It isn't, in fact, a really old skirt. She bought it last month.

His fingers reach to inspect it before she can tug her shirt the rest of the way down her body and hide the evidence of their secret from the prying of other teachers on this floor. In all fairness, it's a little late for them to be here, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

His hand falls back to his side.

Bill offers, "It might come out w-with cold water and baking s-s-soda."

But it's a white stain on black fabric that's sure to dry before she has the chance to lug her dirty clothes down to the laundry room tonight, so they both know it's probably time to lay the skirt to rest.

It's quiet for a moment.

Her hands pull on the hem of her shirt in hopes that it will hang down as much as possible in the event of a gust of wind jostling her clothes or the shirt lifting when she stands on her tippy-toes to retrieve her dorm key from the secret spot atop the door frame. Her neighbor probably wouldn't notice nor point it out, but she'd rather avoid anyone noticing all together.

In the awkward moment that she spends fixing herself, there's a mutual thought of, "What the fuck did we just do?" lingering between them. When she's finally ready to leave, she turns around to see him standing with her bag outstretched to her and says a soft, "Thanks," as she takes it. Their hands brush when he hands it to her, and somehow that affects her more than anything else has.

In her memory, it happened so fast. One second, he was leaning over her to read something she wrote, yet the next thing she knows, they're standing at the door to his office with flushed faces and disheveled clothes. His hands are shoved in his pockets to hide his nervous fidgeting—while the aftermath of an orgasm is usually relaxing, the realization of what they did and how bad it would be if their secret gets out puts a damper on it.

His mask of professionalism is long gone and replaced with more of a worrying boyfriend energy when he asks, "Do you n-need a r-r-ride home? It's kinda dark out."

Her brows raise.

"Why? You hoping for a round two?"

They both know he only asked because he worries about her walking alone after sunset with potential creepers lurking about, waiting for a college girl to pass by on her way home from class. It doesn't help that he's been paranoid by nature ever since his little brother went missing when he was thirteen.

Bill smiles back at her, head tilting to the side as if in question.

"What if I w-w-were?"

A smirk spreads on her face, and it has the butterflies in his stomach start fluttering again. At least she knows he also wants it to happen again. For a second, she worried that he'd never want to do this again, that he saw it as a one-time mistake made in the heat of the moment. Little did she know.

Y/N turns the doorknob, but hesitates, and if he weren't so obsessed with her, he probably wouldn't have noticed. Her hair is messy, but tame enough to be passed off as normal—as opposed to the "my professor just fucked the life out of me" kind of messy, obviously. Maybe her shaky legs will give it away instead.

"I'm taking the bus actually, but thanks anyway," she says as she steps out of the office and into the hallway, gathering the strength to walk away. "Maybe next time."

At first, he thinks nothing of it. They see each other all the time for their private tutoring sessions together, so what she said didn't seem alarming to him at first glance.

As he thinks it through, he watches her walk away and loses himself in the cute way she leaves the other side of the hallway empty even though no one else is there. For such a good girl, someone who even sticks to the right side of the hallway rule when no one is watching, he can't believe she would do something as crazy as sleeping with her professor. If it hadn't been him who she slept with, he wouldn't believe it.

But as soon as she's halfway down the hall, his smile falls. They don't have any more tutoring sessions...this was the last one before the end of the semester.

His voice is a little too high when he calls out after her, "Next time?"

All she does is wave over her shoulder.

And when she later settles down on the bus, huffing in exhaustion, the first song to come on shuffle through her headphones is ABBA's "When I Kissed The Teacher". It takes every ounce of self-control in her body to refrain from bursting into obnoxious laughter in the middle of her quiet bus.


End file.
